


through experience.

by crowkiiing



Series: koizumi & kuzuryuu [1]
Category: Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: post-neo world simulation, tags will be updated as I go.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 02:44:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10527186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowkiiing/pseuds/crowkiiing
Summary: what is he supposed to do? pretend that he didn't kill one of her best friends?





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is gonna be updated out of order!! like, I might write a one-shot about them during despair, then a hope's peak academy one-shot.

“... can I ask you something?”

 

He stops from where he’s rolling his sleeves back in the bathroom, his working eye peering through the crack of the bathroom door. He looks out, gaze landing on the red-headed woman.

 

“Koizumi,” he finally greets tiredly, one hand straying to fix his shirt cuff again. “... Mahiru.”

 

The tension between the two’s obvious.

 

Mahiru lets her hand streak through her hair again, eyes darting away from the former yakuza member. “Um… you didn’t answer my question.”

 

In her hands she holds plastic scissors, one finger looped through the opening of it. Kuzuryuu Fuyuhiko raises an eyebrow upon seeing it, only to furrow when she gestures to her own hair.

 

“... during the simulation,” she begins. “I had my hair short. Remember? And… during my school years, too. I… want to go back in my memories.”

 

The thought is foggy, but Fuyuhiko vaguely remembers what she’s referring to. The stark contrast between her hair now, choppy and surrounding the curve of her frail shoulders, and her hair back then, cropped near her eyes, is obvious. 

 

“Well, why don’t you-”

 

Blood floods his mouth, and Fuyuhiko just barely registers that he’s biting down on his tongue, restraining the words. 

 

Mahiru watches him with tired eyes, but there’s no comment issued between them. Instead, she raises the scissors. 

 

They’ve gone through a lot. All of them have gone through a lot. Hinata (could Fuyuhiko even call him that now?) constantly struggles with his own mind and is losing the concept of what it means to be Hinata Hajime. Mioda doesn’t speak. 

 

The small lot of them that are breathing are struggling. 

 

He pulls himself forward, taking the scissors in his hand. 

 

“... I think the hotel would be best,” Fuyuhiko comments in a quiet tone of voice. “Th-They’ve got the stools there, don’t they?”

 

Casting her gaze at the inside of his cottage, Mahiru can only nod. 

 

He looks gangly in her eyes- scars rip across his jawline. Although the natural blush and the curve of his cheeks is still there, something’s aged about the former heir to the Kuzuryuu clan. 

 

But his aura’s changed too. It’s something more timid, something of a heart that’s been ripped in half and not even trying to come off as tough anymore. 

 

“...thank you.”

 

He doesn’t reply, and instead inspects the scissors, avoiding her gaze. His mouth parts for a moment, a hesitant moment before the man shuts it again.

 

“S’nothing special.”

 

The two walk in silence, past where Tanaka sat quietly at what used to be the pool. 

 

“Tanaka,” Fuyuhiko greets.

 

He doesn’t reply, still under the vow of silence that he had given Enoshima. 

 

When they reach the hotel, Fuyuhiko sets a mirror against the scratched table, letting the redhead choose which of the seats she wanted to sit at. Somehow, he pulls glossy fabric from behind one of the chairs, and secures it tight across her shoulders.

 

“W…” Mahiru’s voice cracks. “You know what you’re doing.”

 

“I used ta’ cut Peko’s hair when it got too long,” he replies. “When I was younger, ‘nyway. Her sensei would cut it to her ears when it got too long, so I… I stepped in.”

 

They work in silence, Fuyuhiko standing, Mahiru sitting. The air’s thick with tension and swamped memories. Red feathers flutter to the floor, thin and floating. 

 

Fuyuhiko’s hand freezes in her hair. 

 

“... Tell me about her.”

 

“About who?”

 

“Sato.”

 

Mahiru’s eyes dart to Fuyuhiko’s face in the mirror. His expression is ground in something regretful, single, working eye focused on the blade of the scissors. 

 

“... Sato?” She repeats quietly. 

 

_ Snip, snip _ . He nods in the mirror. 

 

“... she liked photographs,” Mahiru whispers. “And hated math. She… she was someone who was protective until the very end. Even… even when I wasn’t proud of my photos, she assured me that they were beautiful. She also… loved hamburger steaks. We went to the same middle school club together.”

 

Silence.  _ Snip, snip. _

 

“She was a good person. I… while her actions towards..”

 

The words are hesitant to be spoken, a missile waiting to be fired.

 

“... towards your sister weren’t justified, she was a good person.”

 

The scissors slice through her hair close to her ear, and the former photographer has to calm her rapid heart.

 

She’s speaking to Sato’s murderer. 

 

“What… what about her? Your sister? I mean, I knew a little about her, but-”

 

Fuyuhiko set the scissors down on the table next to the two, then turns Mahiru so that he can work on her bangs. Mahiru flinches, but the yakuza didn’t seem to want to hurt her, face confronted into something melcoholic. 

 

“She was a brat. Selfish, ungrateful, arrogant… but that’s what made her Kuzuryuu Natsumi.”

 

Fuyuhiko let out something akin to a snort mixed with a laugh, but his expression faded again, focusing on the job. 

 

“Always flauntin’, always whinin’, always getting what she wanted… that was her charm. Guess that’s what happens when you grow up being the sister of a heir.”

 

“Were you two twins?”

 

“Yeah.”

Mahiru looks up at him, trying to envision what it feels like to not only lose someone so close to your heart, but someone who’s of your own blood. 

  
  


“But what’s in the past stays in the past,” he shrugs, although she can catch that it’s painful to just shrug it off. “We can’t change anything.”

 

Swallowing, Mahiru nods. He swipes the scissors across her forehead, cutting off the bangs that had started to fall into her eyes. 

 

A shower of red appears on either side of the two, but it’s only a minute or two later that Fuyuhiko stops.

 

“Done.”

 

She risks a glance in the mirror, trembling hands reaching up to thread through the short cut Fuyuhiko has presented her with. 

 

“... thank you,” she says at last. The tension in the room heightens now that Fuyuhiko has nothing to do.

 

She’s standing in the same room as someone who had intended to kill her. When he was more reckless, when he didn’t think, when he didn’t have bricks of guilt upon his shoulders. 

 

“... Koizumi?”

 

On her way to leave, the former photographer looks over her shoulder.

 

“... I’m sorry.”

  
  



End file.
